I see—but not by sight alone, Loved Yarrow, have I won thee; A ray of Fancy still survives— Her sunshine plays upon thee! Thy ever-youthful waters keep A course of lively pleasure; And gladsome notes my lips can breathe, Accordant to the measure.
The vapours linger round the heights, They melt, and soon must vanish; One hour is theirs, nor more is mine— Sad thought, which I would banish, But that I know, where’er I go, Thy genuine image, Yarrow! Will dwell with me—to heighten joy And cheer my mind in sorrow.
W. Wordsworth.
[ SIR HUGH; OR,
THE JEW’S DAUGHTER]
Yesterday was brave Hallowday, And, above all days of the year, The schoolboys all got leave to play, And little Sir Hugh was there.
He kicked the ball with his foot, And kepped it with his knee, And even in at the Jew’s window, He gart the bonnie ba’ flee.
Out then came the Jew’s daughter ‘Will ye come in and dine?’ ‘I winna come in and I canna come in, Till I get that ball of mine.
‘Throw down that ball to me, maiden, Throw down the ball to me.’ ‘I winna throw down your ball, Sir Hugh, Till ye come up to me.’
She pu’d the apple frae the tree, It was baith red and green, She gave it unto little Sir Hugh, With that his heart did win.